'bootch /mace+av

[gamemaker kelsier]

a v r i e l .

"Life can be a drag
But you can drag it backwards
You clean yourself up after
You're done cryin."

One thing Avriel noticed at Saffron's dinner– Mace didn't drink. Bottle of District Ten's finest mead sitting right there on the table, but Mace didn't even have a sip and he saw that. When a glass was poured for Avriel, he'd tried it– his dad used to let him drink a beer sometimes at the fire pit in the backyard– he didn't want to be rude.

He doesn't like getting drunk, every now and then is okay but not having control of himself is just uncomfortable. Drinking's more a nostalgia thing anyway, he just likes the feeling of a cold can in his hand on a fall day and the lingering scent of woodsmoke.

The mead was too sweet, he could feel honey coating his throat. 

Six months later, he's standing in front of the Emberstatt's apartment door on the tenth floor of the training centre. It's quiet, the tributes are all off getting ready for the bloodbath tomorrow.

Avriel doesn't know what he's doing. There's a bottle of Nine's fireweed and ginger kombucha tucked under his arm. The elevator dropped him off about five minutes ago but he hasn't moved forward.

Mace didn't talk much at dinner, it was mostly Saffron. She was nice, in a way that felt too good for someone like Avriel. It made him uncomfortable, he didn't deserve it. Mace mainly just looked at him every now and then and Avriel grew more curious with each glance.

Mace has been around a long time, longer than Avriel's been alive. He's seen so many tributes come and go, watched decades of victors get crowned. If there's anyone who knows what it's like, it's him.

He's not looking for approval, Avriel knows better than that.

He fiddles with the bottle for a moment, letting his thoughts settle. Last year, all he'd wanted was to go home after the games. He needed to be where he was understood, but something in him's shifted since then, Nine isn't the same or maybe he's just too different. Duke and Billie try and it isn't their fault but Avriel's had this tight feeling in his chest for months now.

The victors, even Colgate, feel separate from him. No matter how many of them he meets, the time spent always feels like some weird fever dream. Or, it's just the cold formality of a handshake, over in moments as soon as the cameras shut off.

Through the past year, his phone has been deadweight in his pocket, always silent. Avriel Baptiste doesn't belong but that's how he likes it, right? He doesn't need anything from Mace.

He rests his knuckles on the door to knock, brow furrowed. That's all this is then, a thank-you bottle of kombucha for a legend who Avriel assumes doesn't drink because he didn't touch the mead at dinner six months ago.

Or maybe Mace just doesn't like Mead.

"Shutup," he says, annoyed but it's too late, he's thinking of dark curls and eyes that knew him far too well.

Avriel knocks hard to push the ghosts out, then steps back a bit so he's not stupidly close when the door opens. "Hi," he says, "Here, to thank you for dinner." Avriel holds the bottle out, "It's kombucha, people say the mother was made before the dark days, supposed to be real good."

That's all he wanted to do. Avriel nods and then he turns to head back to the elevators.

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

It doesn't hurt me.
Do you want to feel how it feels?
Do you want to know that it doesn't hurt me?
Do you want to hear about the deal that I'm making?
You, it's you and me.

It was quiet in the District Ten apartment and quiet is the only luxury good Mace Emberstatt trades in. Well, maybe a few delicacies. But this evening, satiated from another extravagant dinner and bolstered by a rare night off from appearances, Mace settled onto the worn couch. He thought about turning on the television but couldn't quite muster the energy to hear about how Maddox and Laurence were doomed (if they were mentioned at all), or how many pounds he'd put on since his last stint in the Capitol.

Instead he picked up a magazine ("Captivating Horticulture") and flipped through looking for a puzzle.

Knock knock.

Mace tucked a sleek silver pen behind his ear as he answered the door. "Hi," he rejoined automatically, taking in the teenager. "Here, to thank you for dinner. It's kombucha, people say the mother was made before the dark days, supposed to be real good."

"Dinner?" Mace echoed blankly. "Oh, you're referrin' to awhile back." His brows knit together as he took a step back. "Please c'mon in." For many years he made excuses about the apartment, begging the other victors to ignore the oppulence and drawing the stylist's attention to the macabre paintings which depicted the 59th, 65th and 74th Games. None of the district ten victors needed the reminder. But slowly, slowly, Mace came to realize that neither group cared at all; the victors were not embarassed by his living quarters and the Capitolites cared nothing for his pain.

Mace wrapped his hand around the bottle's neck and waited just a moment to see if Avriel would accept his invitation. "Did you say the mother?"" He looked down at the label, then back at the boy. "Ain't sure what you mean by that, son. But it's for drinking?"

And if I only could,
I'd make a deal with God,
And I'd get him to swap our places,
Be running up that road,
Be running up that hill,
Be running up that building.
If I only could, oh


running up that hill
-placebo-

[dars]

Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]

[gamemaker kelsier]

a v r i e l .

"Life can be a drag
But you can drag it backwards
You clean yourself up after
You're done cryin."

He can't really remember what he's supposed to be anymore. Gloria says he's a victor, which makes him just like Mace, but it doesn't. He's not. Mace stands there in the doorway and Av can practically see a golden crown on his brow, all the regality of his position rests there, invisible.

It makes Avriel feel like a little kid.

He stands there, hands slipped loosely into his pockets, always the picture of calmed assurance because that's the trick. He's just got to show how unbothered he is and no one will question him, except Avriel bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to make it raw, opening old scars too easy.

That accent of his reminds Avriel so much of Ariel.

"Yeah," he says a beat too late, "It's for drinking."

He was raised in a shit part of Nine but his mother still made sure to shove manners down his throat, sometimes he even remembers them. So Avriel nods, accepting the victor's invitation and follows Mace into his apartment.

Portraits hang on the walls, a younger Mace, Saffron as a little girl and Ansgar, still a reclusive mystery. He stops in front of the one of Mace, eyes searching the painting's gaze for some sign of familiarity but it's almost like looking at a different person. Those eyes, lifeless and cold, they don't match the older victor anymore. It feels like looking in a mirror than anything else.

A shudder runs through him and Avriel turns away from it to follow Mace further in. "The mother is the starter, sorta like how sourdough works, its bacteria," he says, "In Nine we make different flavours depending on the season. This time of year it's fireweed and ginger."

It's easier to think of what to say when Avriel can just inform, harder when the conversation is on him. "It's got a good kick to it, burns a little going down but it's not gonna put you on your ass, y'know?"